


The Parent

by DistantStorm



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Allusions to PTSD, Begrudging Caretaker to Willing Warrior Parent, Canon-Typical Violence, Found Family, Foundlings, Gen, Internal Conflict
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:35:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 21,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21956758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DistantStorm/pseuds/DistantStorm
Summary: He says he is not the child’s anything. He is a man, righting a wrong.Nothing more.(He is wrong.)
Relationships: Baby Yoda & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)
Comments: 445
Kudos: 1349





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't normally write SW fic, and I don't know a great deal of the universe outside of my love for the Mando and his child. I've seen the movies, but I'm not about to win someone's SW trivia night. I mostly just want to write some internal monologue to help us understand how one very badass warrior accepted one small green force-sensitive baby. He might owe the kid one for saving his life, but he saved him from the Imps, so some of that's been repaid. Besides, a bond needs time to strengthen. I've decided to do some exploration to that end in Mando's psyche.

He has always been prone to nightmares. Subconscious, inescapable visualizations in his mind's eye: moments of trauma in his past, augmented by lack of sleep and unavoidable confrontations in his line of work.

He wakes without sound. Always. No harsh breathing, no stilted, stuttering gasps indicative of a nightmare. No jolts. If someone - though they wouldn't, of that he was certain - were to ask, he would say that he does not dream.

They would believe him to be telling the truth.

Not the sound of a bomb, nor even a gunfight rousing him from slumber would earn such a reaction. That was not the way. Even alone, he would not show weakness. The helmet was for anonymity, as was the way of the Mandalore. It was not a shield to prevent the world from seeing his emotions. He was the shield. _He_ did not let them show, even on his perpetually hidden face.

And yet, in this moment, he could not shake the feeling that the child knows somehow. Its eyes linger on him in the near-dark of the cockpit. He can feel its gaze upon him, aimed at the back of his head, half reclined in the pilot’s chair of the ‘Crest. There is no coo of acknowledgement or baby-soft gurgle in the ambient space between them. He can’t force himself to look back at the child. 

“Go to sleep,” He says, if for no other reason than to justify how he closes the prim immediately after. The child doesn’t make a sound, not out of surprise or fright. Not anything.

He withholds a sigh, determined not to let this audibly - noticeably - shake him. It was probably nothing. The only purposeful thing it’s done is eat a frog. He tries not to think about the other thing, the _real_ purposeful thing it’d done, fails, and chalks it up to self preservation, not purpose. They’ll be back to Nevarro before long. 

-/

He does not sleep right away, after they leave Nevarro. He cannot afford to. Surely tens, maybe hundreds of bounty hunters are after him - after _them_ \- because of what he’s done. The choice he’s made spurned was by guilt and the ways of his people, churning in an ugly, red-hot mix that bloomed in his belly. The child makes sound this time, tiny chirps of amusement and interest. He has to make sure it doesn’t swallow the knob he’s given it to gnaw on, but otherwise, it does not appear to need much.

On a delay, he realizes he’ll need to care for it, but that thought occurs at the corners of his mind as he’s finally allowed himself to sleep - their course is set, and they’re going to be jumping for a while before he picks any one place to settle down for a while.

When he dreams, he usually dreams himself as a child. No helm - without the support of his tribe. Alone. Surrounded by murky half-memories of family he can only recall vividly in their final moments - panicked, frenzied, terrified - and whatever other torment his mind can conceive to throw against him. This time, it is a mudhorn, and he wakes to feel the weight of panic on his chest, just before it crushes him beneath its weight. His will is stronger than his fear, though his breath comes heavier than he cares to admit.

The child is standing beside him, on the floor of the cockpit, he realizes gravely. Only his eyes canting to the right allows a glimpse of a pointed, long green ear. It chirps as if to ask a question, as if it can _feel_ his gaze. That’s impossible, he tells himself.

He lifts it onto the seat with a nest of blankets it should have been using to sleep. It tilts its head.

"What?" He snaps, and then mentally rebukes himself. _It's a baby. It doesn't know anything. Get a hold of yourself._

If continues to blink at him, though it makes no more sound. Its- he pauses. That doctor working for the Imps said it was a boy. Why that particular fact matters now, he doesn't know. He chances another sideways glance. The child's posture is expectant. As if he is waiting for him to...

The Mandalorian pushes those thoughts away. He's making a big deal out of nothing. "Sleep," He orders, gruffly. A quick stretch and a return to his slightly - but not completely - relaxed pose should give whatever instincts the kid has some clue that everything is in the clear for now. "Nothing exciting will be happening for a while."

Big ears droop, and the child snuggles into the tangle of blankets. Good. Clearly he's still a tired little alien, because Mando knows for certain the child does not listen to instructions. ...Matter of fact, he highly doubts the child was talked to much before he gunned his way into his life. He doubts it knows much - if any - common.

He doesn't remember what his parents sound like. His mother had a rich, melodic voice, and his father was soft spoken, had a deeper rumble than he does. That's what he'd told himself, forced himself to remember as the dreams and memories faded into snatches of blurred instances before he'd wake, interspersed with feelings of terror, their faces twisted in silent screams.

Returning to wakefulness feels like surfacing after a deep dive - though for him it's more akin to that first lung full of breath after being throttled by a mark - but that weight on his chest feels heavier somehow.

Tiny green tri-clawed hands are curled over his cuirass. At this angle, the child is hardly aided by the slope of his chest, and the beskar is perfectly forged. It is not a metal that would allow him to cling unless those tiny feet had suction cups - and they do not. Taking care of an alien baby (even short term) means he's seen more of said baby than he's seen of any other mark. Former mark. Usually he solves the kinds of problems he encounters with the little one with carbonite. Less hassle.

It's a mistake that he doesn't check to see if the child's awake. Mando assumed he was. He grunts, "What the hell are you doing?" And the child's grip withdraws, he flails backwards with a shrill, startled cry, and Mando's cupped hands save him from what would likely have been a bounce off the dash and directly onto the floor.

Satisfied with its situation - Mando holds him up in front of himself, evaluating him from behind his helm - the child coos and reaches back toward him.

"I'm not your pillow, kid."

A small green mouth frowns, as if to say he's not insinuating that. His tipped fingers make a grabbing motion, and that earns him a trip a little bit closer to the Mandalorian's face.

"Look. You sleep over there. Not on me."

He puts the child back in his bedding. The child warbles, forlorn.

"Sleep," He barks. He knows that his actions recently have likely woke long dormant instincts - needs, his mind inserts, oh so helpfully - in the child. The Mandalorian knows he’s hardly suitable for raising a foundling. He just needs to find a safe place, somewhere far off the grid to lay low, and maybe somewhere habitable to drop the kid off.


	2. Chapter 2

Sorgan changes things.

And not in the complete lifestyle change, abandonment of his people’s teachings kind of way, either.

The child is attached to him, but that's what kids did. The only reason he planned to bunk with the kid in the barn in the first place is because they’re putting these people out, and they barely have a pot to piss in on a good day, nevermind what the raiders have taken or destroyed. Of course, the villagers all assume the child is his, and he runs with that (much to Cara’s amusement).

She takes to calling the child his at every opportunity. To see how far she can push before he draws a non-negotiable line. She forgets that he’s got thick skin, and he’s not talking about the beskar.

At night, after the child falls asleep, he eats the dinner the woman - Omera - brings him. She’s been coming later and later, offering conversation and advice that often has to do with the child. Everyone in the village is enamored. He does not miss the lack of small children, even Omera’s child is likely about to hit double digits in age if she has not already. Like her daughter, Omera is curious and unafraid to ask questions. About the helmet, his people and their ways. She masks it as wishing to make him comfortable, but he has his suspicions. Usually, when he answers, but does not leave room to continue the conversation, she takes it in stride, understanding the boundaries for what they are. Her questions turn to the child. Where he came from. Obviously he is not the child’s parent by birth. Why did he adopt such a child?

The answer is that he didn't. He doesn't say that, though.

Instead, he says he that is not the child’s anything. He is only a man, righting a wrong.

Nothing more.

She casts a look at the crib, and he sees something in her posture break. He follows her gaze.

The child is watching them. His eyes are glossy.

“Cara had insinuated that you might not feel paternal towards him,” Omera says, coming near the edge of the wooden rails. The child flinches down and away. She recoils. “But you are. Even if you do not realize it.”

“To right a wrong,” He states, even. To say it feels metallic. Bitter. But it’s the truth.

“He is your boy,” She says, looking down at the child, reaching for him, then recoiling in response to whatever the child does, out of his line of sight. She straightens. “It is hard, to raise a child alone. I know that pain well. While I don’t know what your people teach about children-”

“Foundlings are the future,” He tells her, without thinking.

Her brows creep closer together, and a softness clouds her eyes. “This foundling has chosen you,” She tells him, as if that should validate something inside of him. “And I think,” She says, looking once more at the child in the crib, “That if you look inside yourself,” For a woman so intent on getting his helmet off, she does a damn good job of searching his eyes through his visor as if she already sees him laid bare, “You’ll find that you’ve chosen him as well.”

Omera leaves them alone, after.

It takes him a moment to wander up to the crib, to look down.The child is turned away from him, towards the rungs facing wooden crates and the thatched outer wall. His eyes are open, just a bit. The child is feigning sleep, but poorly. He can hear the slightest sound of blinking, see the trails of what were likely tears…

It hurts. Somewhere raw and unknown inside of him hurts at the sight.

“Kid-”

The child curls in on himself. Flinches when he reaches a hand down, to pull the blankets over him. The kid doesn’t want his false comfort.

He sighs. That's fair. Though he can’t provide comfort - he is going to leave the child here, he just needs to linger a bit longer to make sure it’s well and truly safe with the raiders out of the picture - he finds himself compelled to sit beside the crib, his back against the wooden frame, facing out towards the exit.

His mouth feels dry when he speaks, and he’s not quite sure why he feels like he has to justify it. The kid probably won’t remember him anyway, a few weeks after he’s gone. “A life -  _ my life _ isn’t the life for a kid,” He says quietly in the dark. It isn’t. He knows it isn’t.

The child doesn’t protest. Doesn’t squirm indignantly, chirp, coo, nothing. His breathing evens out, baby-soft and soothing. It’s enough to lull the warrior to sleep. For once, he dreams of nothing. No flashbangs, no droids, not anything. It’s rare and invigorating.

He wakes, stiff, but very nearly refreshed. Then he turns and finds himself looking into an empty crib.

Reason says Omera or even her daughter, Winta could have come in and taken the child. He hasn’t slept so deeply in a long time. But he knows. He’d have known if there were footsteps, though quiet to some, these villagers are so loud. Perhaps, he tries to reason with himself again, the child heard one of them and ambled out on his own? Kid's sneaky, and familiar enough not to alert him if he's that deeply asleep.

He answers his own question. It’s unlikely. It’s barely first light. Omera and her child are rarely awake to greet the dawn. The krill ponds are too cold to wade in, in the dark. They’d work past dusk instead, when the water has been warmed by their sun all day. If the child wandered off, it did so of it's own volition.

So, he wonders, why?

His gut twists in that same wild bloom of guilt and anguish, but with something more. Something primal laced over it that's out of his control. 

Panic.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A longer one today. If you're stuck at work and unable to watch the finale until later (like I am), you deserve something to hold yourself over.

It’s bedlam.

He runs into Cara before he reaches Omera’s hut. Cara’s confusion is obvious.

“There’s no one up but us. If your kid wandered off, he’s likely bunking with Winta.”

He wants to consider it, but, “Would he even know the way?”

She shrugs. “I’ll look around,” She says, instead of the witty response that’s poised between her lips. Instead of it, she quips something far more ruthless. “But only because I can see your guilt radiating off the beskar.”

The Mandalorian steps around her without so much as an acknowledgement. He never sees the surprised eyebrow raise, or the twist of Cara’s lips before she gets moving with that all-business, service-forged gait.

“I’m coming in,” He says, forcing himself loud through the modulator as he pushes back the flap that separates her lodging from the rest of the village. 

He frightens Omera awake, she sleeps in the main room, on a small cot that folds up in the daytime. She pulls back one blanket sleepily, frowning at him from where she lays. “What's the matter?”

“Is the kid with you?” He asks, though he’s already scanning her sleep attire to make sure the kid hasn’t decided to cuddle up to her. He’s sneaky, she’d likely never know, considering how disoriented she is upon waking.

“I haven’t seen him since I left you last night,” She murmurs, huskily, through a yawn. “He’s not in his crib?”

“No.”

That brings quick alertness to her. She snaps, “Winta!”

Bleary dark eyes and a mess of hair pokes out from behind a curtain in the far corner. “Mama?”

“The boy.”

“Wha?” She groans and pushes herself up to standing.

“Have you seen the baby?”

“No. Not since dinner yesterday.”

The Mandalorian is already spinning on his heel, headed back outside. “Wait!” Omera hollers, rising to her feet. “I’m coming.”

“I can help, too!” Winta offers.

“Go to the barn,” She tells Winta, before he can stop her. “Sit and wait. If he wandered out, he might not be far. We’ll need someone to let us know if he comes back.”

“I’ve already looked-” The woman silences him with a sternness to her gaze. Winta sprints off, feet still bare, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders as she goes to complete the task she’s been given.

“I know that won’t be the case,” Omera tells him, one hand on his chest. “But I do not want her finding him in case something has happened.” She looks away.

Something more sharp than panic makes his blood run cold. There is no way anything managed to get past him, and if they had managed to get the drop on him, they would have slit his throat. If that hadn’t happened... The child slipped past him. He wandered off, left, on his own. 

And he knows.

Deep down, the Mandalorian knows.

-/

“How far could the kid get? There’s no way he’s been out there long.” Cara looks between Omera and Mando. Omera reaches a hand out to comfort, and he flinches away.

There are tracks. Small, baby sized tracks in the mud between the ponds of krill, half dried by the rising sun, half dried by time. He sighs. “Apparently out of the village.” They certainly look to have gone that way. “I’ll go. I think-” Omera nods. “It needs to be me.”

“Whatever,” Cara rolls her eyes. “This parenting thing seems way overrated to me,” She says, throwing up her hands.

Mando is already turning, rifle slung over his shoulder. “Thank you,” He calls, tilting his head so they can hear him.

“Well I’ll be,” She whistles, when he’s just out of earshot. “That was some extra special gratitude.”

“You shouldn’t poke fun at him,” Omera chastises.

“Oh,” Cara laughs. “I’m not. He’s normally grateful. That sounded desperate.”

“I think he is.”

“Yeah,” The ex-shock trooper agrees. She isn't gloating. In fact, she sounds subdued. “I know.”

-/

If he treats it like a job, it’s easy. He can see the fading signature of the kid’s footsteps, can follow them until they disappear, then look around to see where they start again. And if the trail goes cold, there are other ways. He looks for plants and bushes, scraps that might have gotten caught in the bramble torn off his baggy, sack-like robe.

He moves slow. Methodically. Careful. This is how he tracks prey.

But this is not prey. This is not a job. This is a child.

A child, who clearly understood what he’d said to Omera last night despite not understanding what _don’t touch that_ and _stay here_ meant. A child, who, under duress, could try to protect himself - but whatever that power of his was left him weak and vulnerable. Exposed. Who knew if that power of his could even kill an enemy, or just stop them in their tracks, temporarily.

He prays, well, it's more that he hopes it doesn’t come to a point where he is forced to know.

He’s not walking long before the trail disappears, and even then, there’s no sign of further footsteps, no logical explanation, unless a flying creature had taken him right off his feet-

No, he rules that out. There’s no flying creature that large on this plant that he’s seen. The villagers would have said something. It would be a threat to their krill farming efforts.

Why is he overreacting so much?

He knows the answer as soon as the question crosses his mind.

 _The child is my responsibility._

Regardless of what he plans to do (what he knows he must) he made the choice that set off this chain reaction. And it is his duty to see it through to the end. That shouldn’t bother him nearly as much as it does, but something frosty, foreign, and uncomfortable settles low beneath the panic in his gut.

There are no more footprints to track, but he notices the knotty roots that cover the ground and begins his search anew. Around the time he begins to wonder if he should be looking up - maybe the kid knew how to climb a tree - he hears a tiny peep of a whimper, sees the tip of a soft green ear sticking out of a small cavern-like recess where the base of a tree and its roots meet the cold, damp ground.

The kid must be freezing, he thinks, letting out a ragged, relieved breath he hadn't realized he was holding. From his vantage point all he can see is one ear, and it sinks down, like it does when he thinks no one is looking at him. Not listening for outside sound.

That's a dangerous thing, but he doubts the little one knows any better.

"Come out, kid," He says, voice rough, and maybe a touch hoarse. It's only because he's been awake maybe an hour now.

His visible ear droops, looking like it's been pushed back at the wrong angle. It's flat against his head. _Fear_?

"Kid?" The inflection of his voice is very careful. Not angry. He might be irritated that the child wandered off, but he can't help that with each passing second that the unpleasant feeling in his gut tingles in a weird sort of way.

The child doesn't move. Not on purpose at least. The single ear stays flat. When the Mandalorian rounds the tree to get a better look, the child is visibly trembling.

He must be cold, Mando decides, and drops to a knee to reach inside the enclave and pull the boy out. Except-

The child flinches again and makes a sound. It isn't shrill, like a tantrum. Matter of fact, the child has never thrown one of those before. The most defiance he's gotten is a squawk, but a majority of the time it's giggling ignorance he faces.

This sound is subdued. Resigned.

 _Not fear,_ his conscience pounds into the forefront of his thoughts. _This is not simply fear. This is-_

The Mandalorian attempts to pluck the child up and it feels like a hand presses against his chest, like a wall comes up between them to stop him. He can't move forward, lay his hand on the kid, scoop him out of the gnarled recess of the tree.

He's reminded, as his feet find no leverage to push forward, of the mudhorn.

"Stop that," He says, no-nonsense, and the child curls in on himself further. The barrier - at least, that's the only way he can think to describe it - doesn't let up.

So he waits. He is far more patient than an alien baby, so he gives it a handful of minutes, then reaches in again. This time he barely gets a finger on the burlap robe the child wears.

Then he is thrown back. His ass makes contact with the ground but certainly not hard enough to hurt. He sits there for a lot longer than he cares to admit, half shell-shocked at another demonstration of the kid's weird gift, but more feeling like an idiot sitting here on the mossy ground, trying to reason with a toddler.

"You're angry with me?"

The child squirms, but doesn't look.

"Look, I get it," He says, with as much conviction as he can muster. The kid probably doesn't understand him, but for some reason it loosens that knot of guilt and discomfort in his gut. "But it's what's best for you."

That single ear unfurls, but doesn't stick up in rapt attention. It's a start. Kid doesn't believe him yet.

"It's not that I-" He sighs, ending that line of reasoning. He's not going there. "This is a pretty great place, kid. The kinda life you deserve. Nobody chasing after you, lots of frogs to hunt..."

The kid doesn't budge.

"I know you don't spit them out when no one's looking, womp rat."

He stills, ear perking. Maybe it's because he knows what a frog is, or maybe he can sense the warm hint of humor in his protector's tone. He tenses when he finds himself hoping it's the latter.

This is _no_ _t_ the time to catch feelings. He's just got to power through this. _Yes_ , he was worried about the kid, but _no_ , that does not change the plan. He just has to see this through and then it's onto the next, get some work, make due. 

"Just, trust me, okay? I-" The rest of the words don't leave his lips, but it's emotional whiplash to have them where his tongue touches his teeth, right there. Aborted. _It's not like I_ want _to leave you here._ It shocks him silent to realize that he'd have meant it. Those words. He wouldn't have been able to take them back.

It's in that silence that the child toddles out, looking at him with teary eyes. Mando doesn't risk moving, on the off chance the kid decides to activate that power of his again, and keeps his palms on his armored thighs. His legs are laid flat against the ground and the child waddles between them, looking up into his helm for a long time.

The Mandalorian can't help but wonder, as the kid looks into his covered face with a depth to his gaze, if he's been had. Maybe he doesn't understand every word, but this kid sure as hell understands intent.

The kid is looking at him like he knows the Mandalorian better than the Mandalorian knows himself. He doesn't get to think on it for long, though. Maybe the kid sees what he's hoping to, reflected in his helm. Maybe he doesn't. Either way, the moment breaks when the first of the little one's tears begins to fall.


	4. Chapter 4

He carries the kid back to the village while he cries it out. He's not loud about it, his body shakes and stutters through sobs, but only a few pitiful chirps come from him. Something compels Mando to take the long way around, not the direct path that intersects the ponds. 

Telling himself it's so that he's not forced to explain the crying to the villagers is a lie he can't bring himself to believe, so instead he tells himself nothing at all. There are tiny clawed fingers digging into his shirt between his armor, and he can feel the dampness of tears against the skin of his shoulder, through the heavy fabric.

His hand cups the back of the kid's head, and the child cries harder at first. When he pulls back there is concerned squeak, a hoarse cry.

"Okay, okay," He says to the child, replacing his hand, trying to pretend the watery warble the kid makes doesn't feel like a punch in the gut.

The kid is still fussy but mostly asleep by the time he makes it back to the barn, eyelids slowly fluttering, ears shifting as he sways between alert and indisposed, wide eyes out of focus. His grip doesn't waver, though Omera is sitting with a distraught Winta, who immediately tries to dart around him, looking to see the kid clinging to him for dear life. His green forehead crinkles when he whines again, louder now at her carrying on.

"Winta," Omera rebukes, but there's a softness in tone. She rises from the crate she'd been sitting on. "I'll check back later," She says, and he can read both relief and sternness in her eyes as she ushers her child out.

When they're alone, he realizes she's set a jug of water beside some cloths, anticipating the child's needs. He wouldn't have thought of that, but the bottom of the kid's clothes are caked in mud, and he's certain his feet and legs must be as well. He sighs, trying to lay the kid on the table and earning angry, squabbling cries. 

Cleaning him up is a process, but the Mandalorian is careful, and so long as the child can feel him dabbing away mud with a flannel or see the shadow of him leaning down over him through his eyelids, he makes little ambient sounds. It's almost like a series of chirps, soft and sad and yearning, but the Mandalorian doesn't know what for. Of course, the kid fights sleep to tell him, with a resolute grip on one of his fingers with his entire tiny hand.

He pulls away from the green grip without much difficulty, only to watch as closed eyes scrunch and a heartbreaking mewl tears from the child's mouth.

Discarding the dirty rags and picking up the kid's blanket from his crib, it hits him that he shouldn't be rewarding this behavior. He should let the kid cry it out (under supervision, that's for sure), but instead he wraps the child up in the blanket, tucks him into the crook of his left arm so he can still reach his blaster if needed, and paces.

After a few moments, all the restless sounds he makes stop, and all that remains are the tiny wisps of baby’s breath in sleep. He looks younger, swaddled like this - far younger than he does when he’s awake. The child squirms to get comfortable, and manages to free one arm from his constraints. A small hand finds the beskar plating that covers the Mandalorian's chest, and he sighs, finally seeming content now that he’s laid claim to his protector in some fashion.

"You still think you're going to leave him," Cara says, shaking her head in the doorway. She can't have been there for more than a moment. "And I'm tellin' you you're not."

"It's better this way."

"For who? The widow's kid?" Her lips thin as she shakes her head. "Whatever. I'm starting to think you like torturing yourself. If you take off the helmet, you could have it all. The kid, a good woman, a nice quiet place to settle down-"

Outsiders do not understand. They think him to be alone, but he is not. Even if she is an ally, to suggest otherwise, to talk of his tribe is not smart. The child interrupts them, making a sound like it's being disturbed, a soft grunt that escalates in pitch. It sears through the irritation mounting behind the Mandalorian's eye sockets at her words, lets him push the feeling down and away.

"You're disturbing him," He says, putting his frustration into safer words. It's a better place.

"Alright, dad, calm down," Cara rolls her eyes. "I'm out."

The child blinks his eyes open once, looking up at him once she's gone. "You did that on purpose," He accuses the drowsy child.

Smacking his lips, the child gurgles and lets his eyes fall closed.

-/

He knows, without a doubt, that Omera will take the baby. It's easier, having this conversation, knowing that in advance. Even if Cara still scoffs under her breath about it.

He can feel it, her desire to unmask him, as their conversation continues. Her eyes dare him to stop her, like he doesn't want this too. And maybe, some part of him does. It'd be easy to fall into a routine of hard work and relaxation in equal measure, to raise the kid and have a warm body against him at night.

But that is not his path. It is not the way he has chosen, and he will not turn his back on his tribe, on the Mandalore. Those are his people, his community. This is the way. This, and no other.

He removes her hands, wills her to meet his eyes even behind the tinted black, and faces her disappointment, her sorrow.

She agrees to take the child. He's already packed his bag, he'll leave what he can for the village and slip away before the child ever knows.

And then, everything changes with a single shot fired.

He knows, in that split second before he tells Omera to mind the children.

And as he meets Cara in the woods, and as he crushes the damn fob beneath his boot, he's furious. Not at the bounty hunter. He gets it, that's life. He's angry with himself. He should have known. What would have happened if he had the kid here unprotected, weeks ago? Cara wouldn't have known, the child is not her responsibility.

_ Yours,  _ something inside him whispers fervently.  _ The child is your responsibility. _

He has to see this through.

If not here, not anywhere will be safe for the child. It’s still too soon, he tells himself. Things still haven’t cooled down. He ignores the feeling that there’s more to it than that. He can only do what he can do with what he has, and right now, what he has is a head start. It looks like the kid would be getting his way after all, he thinks disbelieving. After all that.

It's time to move on.


	5. Chapter 5

Normally after landing in a place like this, he’d have already scouted the local cantina, found work. Instead, he’s sitting in the cockpit of his ship, watching the warning lights mock him while the child fights the post adrenaline crash of their most recent firefight. 

He makes a mental note to pad the container he’s been using as the kid’s carrier, especially after hearing the displeased whines it made after their… abrupt maneuver. That can’t have been comfortable, the kid doesn’t exactly have an exoskeleton, and despite his supposed age, he’s hardly fully developed. The Mandalorian never encountered a race that stays perpetually young, because any race that did was more than likely already wiped out by beings far crueler than he was.

A soft yowl from the bundle in his arms draws his attention downward. It turns into an inquisitive chirp and then a yawn, tiny arms and legs shifting and relaxing as he loses the battle to keep those big beady eyes open. He can feel the child’s heat beneath his palm through the glove, sees his mouth working through intelligible murmurs.

No thought goes into it, the way his hand slowly rubs the kid’s back in a wide circle. It’s natural, and it works. When he feels himself relaxing, the kid having fallen asleep a while before, he forces himself to his feet and carefully shifts the kid to one arm while he descends to the cabin of his ship.

He’s reluctant to lay the child down. Clawed fingers do not cling to the gaps in his armor, the child does not flinch or fuss when he’s moved. He hasn’t slept in some time, Mando isn’t sure how long, but he knows from their time on Sorgan the kid spent more of the day sleeping some days than he spent awake. It was what children did, Omera had told him, after one particular instance in which the child slept for nearly an entire night and day, woke in time to be fed, then drifted off in his arms with a full belly not long after. Of course, being in space messed with that internal rhythm, without a sun or moon to separate day from night, the child was easily strung out, confused about when to sleep and when to rise.

If anything, that should make him more comfortable about this. The kid won’t wake up for hours at least, and he’ll be quick about it. He just needs to find some work to pay for repairs so they can get out of there. It will be fine. He decides the uncomfortable flutter in his stomach is paranoia and gets on with it. It's not like the kid hasn't spent fathomless amounts of time closed up in a hovering crib. That doesn't make him feel any better about it.

He feels compelled to stroke the child’s tiny arm through the blanket before he goes, to make sure the kid is tucked in, comfortable and secure. He refuses to consider why he’d been hell bent on leaving the kid behind, because it leads to the inevitable truth. If he doesn't think about it, at least he can feign ignorance until he's left with no other choice.

-/

The panic that grips him at the sight of his empty bunk creeps higher than before, refusing to settle low in his gut, to slosh around in his stomach uncomfortably. Instead, it feels like tendrils of ice shooting upward, in his veins, to his chest. Something in him threatens to seize and break away. Did the kid think he was abandoning him? Did it wander out onto the street? This wasn’t some mudpuddle in the middle of nowhere, this was Tatooine. There were people around here who would figure out what the child was worth in an instant. His feet move before his brain catches on and he’s yelling at the mechanic up in her control station before he can think better of it, be rational-

_ "Where is he?" _

But the kid cries, shrill, upset, cantankerous cries, and he realizes when she berates him that he might have gotten this wrong.

“You have an awful lot to learn about raising a young one,” She says, as if she’s raised children herself. Maybe, he considers, as the child looks up to her, awfully trusting, she has. “Anyway…”

The kid doesn’t look particularly thrilled, he looks like he needs more sleep. The fuzz on the back of his head is matted and mussed by whatever he’d been sleeping against - and judging by the tiny wet spot on the mechanic’s jacket, it’s the woman’s chest. He can’t help but smirk inside the helm, not that anyone could see it. Looks like the kid’s destined to charm someone everywhere they go. The feeling is a strangely soothing reprieve from whatever chill has rooted in his chest despite the desert heat.

“Thank you,” He says, at some point in the conversation, when she’s looking at him as if daring him to challenge her. Even if she’s not the authority on raising an unknown race of alien baby, Mando would be hard pressed to find someone who knew less about childcare than he did.

It’s clear his response surprises the woman, but she doesn’t press him for further gratitude, too busy fawning over the child, stroking his head and acting as if its coos are of great conversational value. The child seems to eat it up, but it still finds his eyes, through his visor. The panic has since eased, but it’s far quieter in his mind now. He finds the kid’s soul-searching gaze to be far less intrusive than it’s felt previously. It must be a product of time or maybe it’s lacking intensity because he’s still tired. The kid reaches a hand towards him, but the mechanic takes it instead.

“He’s got to go on a job, little one. You’re going to stay here and keep me company until he comes back, alright?” There’s something honeyed in the woman’s tone that wasn’t there before, and he can’t help but nod curtly, the child looking to her and then back. “Shouldn’t be more than-”

An unhappy sound comes from the child, a grunt mixed with a displeased sigh.

“Now, now. The Mandalorian will come back for you. Isn’t that right?” She’s playing with his ears now, the Mandalorian can see it over his shoulder, his head tipped to the side. Her question isn’t to him, it’s more of an assurance to the child, but that doesn’t stop him from answering anyway.

“A day,” He gruffs out, heading to the exit of the bay. He pauses in the doorway. “Be good, womp rat.”

The mechanic is hot on his tail, hiding her grin behind one floppy green ear. “Oh-ho, I think that big mean bounty hunter likes you.” She talks more smack about her droids, how she needs her money, but it lacks the sting it had earlier with her bouncing the kid in her arms.

At least, with eyes on him - kind eyes, even if she's a bit rough around the edges - Mando feels like the kid will be okay. He won't be gone long.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to take a sec and thank everybody who has dropped by this story. Writing for this fandom has been an absolute treat and I'm so thankful for all your support!

The speeder was gone and there was a body in the dust. It wasn’t the body he expected to find. These things happened, but-

The kid -  _ the newbie, _ not the one waiting for him back in town - he’s greedy. Fennec would try to bargain with him, and his goal… it had nothing to do with her bounty. He was after something more. He was trying to find an in. To make a name for himself.

If she had told the kid, Toro, about him - she knew about Sorgan, about how there was a high price on his head - he wouldn’t stick around. He wouldn’t be able to win against a Mandalorian without an unfair advantage. He wasn’t able to land his mark without hiring outside help. No, the newbie would have to have the high ground.

He turned the dewback around without thought, a shift of his weight in the saddle, a scan of the horizon ahead and behind. There were two things in his favor. Shand likely setting the newbie up, just in case she didn’t get the chance to off him (which had happened, but for an underestimation on her part) - it would be easier for her to live through things by pitting her captors against each other. The second was his new target's motivation: the kid was greedy. He expected the Mandalorian to go down without a fight, to surrender for sake of keeping a baby safe.

There’s a bitter taste in his mouth, and it’s the knowledge that he’s done what he’s had to do before. That he’ll do it again. That there are consequences and innocents and things are messy. That he is not a good man.

Would he die for the child, he wonders. Would he lean into it, if it came to that? It would be a noble end. But, if he died, the child would surely perish without him. He couldn’t get by on his own. Would he, by the ways of his tribe and the creed that forged him, fight to the bitter end for a child of unknown progeny, a fluke bounty he’d traded for the beskar that now protected him? It certainly seemed fitting. Was that to be his mark on the galaxy? 

Would it matter, if this wet-behind-the-ears kid got trigger happy?

He stops himself from that line of thought with deep, even breaths. He has to stay focused. The ride on a speeder would only be a few hours, but on the dewback, it would take him the entire day. He can’t drive himself insane with worry. It’s too early for that nonsense and he knows it. He has to remain calm, keep the beast beneath him moving through the hottest part of the day, and-

Expect the worst; Hope for the best.

Best case, the mechanic saw right through the rookie and took him out.

Worst case he kills the child and takes his body to the imps.

Against his will, his eyes close, and his head tips back, the dark tint of his visor protecting his eyes from the suns that would scorch through his eyelids otherwise. His fingers tighten on the leather of the reins. That can’t happen, he tells himself. Surely the kid isn’t that stupid, he wants to hope.

But he knows the kid  _ is  _ that supid. If he’s stupid enough to double cross a Mandalorian to get into the guild, he’s stupid enough to kill a child in the Mandalorian's protection.

Foundling, his treacherous brain thinks. 

He doesn't take the time to process it. He is not able to parse the significance of this shift in this moment. Fury is white hot behind his eyes, and the fear mingles with rage, boiling down to a coiling, dangerous cocktail of deadly precision and honed instinct. His mind goes quiet, well acquainted with this anticipation.

A Mandalorian is both predator and prey. That is how it’s always been for him. This wannabe hunter will be finding out what it feels like to be both, likely for the first and last times. Toro Calican has made a mistake.

And he _will_ lose.

-/

He doesn’t let himself think about it right away.

The lights in the cockpit are dim and the child is silent but not asleep in the container resting on the chair beside him. The cute little sounds he’d made to charm the mechanic have been abandoned. He looks out the viewfinder with those wide eyes, head tilting, ears relaxed and not on alert.

A moment passes, and when he looks back again, the kid’s eyes are on him. Something in the Mandalorian’s chest tightens. The kid looks fine, like he always does. But he’s quieter than usual.

“You, uh,” He turns the pilot’s chair almost one hundred eighty degrees, “You doing okay back there?”

Ears rise and fall, and the child blinks at him once, twice, - never making a peep - before reaching out his hands.

Trust. There’s trust in those wide, wide eyes. He frowns, shifting uncomfortably behind his headpiece. He doesn't feel like he deserves it. His choices keep endangering the child, keep going poorly. “I-” The kid tilts his head, waiting. His hands fall down, curling over the edge of his makeshift crib. It takes him a second to realize what the kid wanted without him making a racket about it, as he had that rare time before.

The child has already swung his little body over the edge of the container by the time he realizes it, the nature of the unspoken request. “You want to be held?”

His answer comes in a pat on each leg and two arms raised in his direction, the child toddling carefully to stand between his feet.

He is not heavy. Most of his bulk is the warmth of his robe-like garment. Holding him out at eye-level, the Mandalorian says, “Alright. You can sit with me, as long as you don’t touch anything. Got it?”

No answer comes, but when he sets the kid on an armored thigh, he curls into the space at his side just after the beskar ends. One tiny hand clutches the fabric of his tunic, and the other splays out over the back of the hand that prevents him from falling, since the ‘Crest has no armrests.

The child rubs the back of his hand in big circles: slow, almost sloppy but not quite. He looks up, face half nestled in the fraying suit beneath his protector’s armor. He makes a questioning sound, a nonsensical babble that’s flavored with concern.

“I’m okay,” He ventures, voice strained, cheeks flushed. A vivid picture of him rubbing the child’s back appears in his mind. The kid couldn’t do that, so he was making due with whatever parts of his protector he could reach. “Don’t, erm,” He sighs, patting the back of the little one’s hand, sandwiching it between his own and squeezing ever so gently. Awkwardly, he grunts, “You don’t have to worry about me.”

A tiny green mouth curls in a frown and the hand that was tangled in the brown material comes up over the top of the Mandalorian's, completing the stack. He pats it twice and looks up, making a firmer, still nonsensical sound. His eyes don’t narrow so much as they close halfway in a squint that’s less inquisitive and more adorable.

“I’m serious, kid. I’m the one that should-”

The tiny hand atop the pile threads itself awkwardly between his gloved fingers and squeezes with a strong grip, as if to reinforce the seriousness.

“-be worried about you.”

The reply is indignant.

“You disagree.”

The top hand on the pile is withdrawn, and the Mandalorian uses his newly freed extremity to trace one of the child’s ears. The little one doesn’t break eye contact with the impassive helm, holding his gaze firmly despite the shielding, and the hand still set atop his resumes it’s slow, uneven circles without any further argument. The child has proven time and time again that he'll do what he wants. It's just… humbling that a child would worry for him. He can take care of himself.

The child can't. Not entirely. He likely doesn't realize how close he came to death today, the Mandalorian thinks, and with it comes the weight of the thoughts he'd spent hours pushing out of his mind in the desert. Things worked out fine, he tells himself. They've moved on. He had been angry, that's why he'd experienced such intense feelings.

The soothing motion on the back of his hand slows. The child asks another question in sounds that aren't words, pulling his hand up to encircle with both stubby green arms. He should feel ridiculous that a toddler-like being is trying to give him a hug.

Instead, he feels something else.

“Yeah,” He agrees after a while, voice hoarse for reasons that have nothing to do with the modulator in his helmet. The emotions are slippery and foreign to process in terms of someone else, so the Mandalorian drifts a bit, in the moment. “I’m glad you’re okay, too.”

Relief.


	7. Chapter 7

"This is a bad idea," He tells the little one.

The response he receives is a raspberry that doesn’t quite leave the ground. It’s more of a gurgle since the kid doesn't have defined lips. Not helpful either way, the Mandalorian thinks.

He doesn’t say that, though, reading between some invisible lines and only feeling mostly ridiculous for it. "Yeah, I get that you think I can take 'em, but these guys will double cross us first the chance they get." He sighs, already knowing that the Guild actively pursuing them and his lack of funds will push him to accept the job for better or worse.

The child reaches for him again.

"You'll have to stay in the bunk while I'm on the job. No funny business. These guys aren't like that mechanic you worked over. They won't fall for-"

The kid tilts his head, makes a more urgent chirp followed by a grabbing motion. His little claws click together softly as he does.

"-that," The Mandalorian finishes, already bending forward to pluck the child up. He holds the child up higher than himself, and the kid coos. “You’re not going to turn me into a softy either, but nice try.”

Little hands that pat the beskar that covers his cheeks while large eyes focus on his visor, as if looking through it with rapt attention. Like it’s clear and not tinted so that the man behind it can see out, but no one can see his eyes. The child inspects his headgear, running his fingers across it with great care - not the clumsy, flopping mannerisms he’s seen from other children. He starts at the forehead and moves down to the chin, little fingers curling underneath, warm and soft against the barely-there fabric that extends up to cover his chin. He flinches, ready to stop him when his hand curls under the edge of the helm but the child coos and slides his fingers back and up over where ears should be, beneath Mandalorian iron. Trying to wrestle the helmet off his protector is not his intent. 

It lasts maybe a minute, but it feels like hours that the child investigates him, that he holds the kid up so that his head is tipped back against the headrest and the child is looking down.

His heart is beating wildly, he realizes, when the kid finally squirms in his outstretched arms, exploration seemingly complete. Why, he wonders. Why does this upset him? Kids are curious about the ones around them. That’s natural. He was, when  _ he- _

He sets the child on an armored thigh with a note of finality. Whatever had just happened was done. “I’ll contact him,” He decides for them. “Can’t hurt to see if he’s got any work.”

The child looks up at him, ears perked. Alert.

“That’s right. It’s probably going to be dicey. So you’re going to listen to me when I tell you to stay in the bunk and not make any noise. I might be gone for a bit. Got it?”

The child makes a non-threatening sound in reply and leans toward the closest joystick, knowing what comes next, that their course needs adjusting. Mando just hopes that in whatever baby language the kid’s using it said yes. He's got a bad feeling, but they could really use some credits.

-/

Nothing ever goes right. He knows, when the the ex-Imp picks up the child, that they’re eying him like a piece of meat. That they believe they’ve just identified an obvious weakness. Arguably his only one. The helmet isn’t a weakness; They just underestimate his strength.

He can't act like it, and yet, when the bastard moves to drop the child, he cannot help it.

The kid's been thrown around enough. Even if it's a joke at his expense, his synapses fire and his blood pounds and his world is reduced to a single point:  _ don't let them hurt the baby _ .

He flinches.

They laugh. Fine, he thinks, scowling behind his helm. He’s used to that happening with this particular riff-raff. Makes ‘em feel better, poking fun at a man with some morals, makes them feel like he’s the strange one. He’s not. They’re the broken ones. He just needs to get the kid out of this guy’s hands before something bad happens.

Like the droid dropping out of hyperspace without warning and sending all of them flying.

The child screams.

He doesn’t hear it. Everything is white noise, the change in g-force as the Droid initiates the maneuvers necessary to keep the Razor Crest undetectable making his ears ring without sound.

He feels the child hit the floor of the cabin like he's underwater, sees those big eyes and a tiny nose scrunch, his mouth twist in pain, exposing tiny teeth. He drops instantly, bracing himself over the tiny being, focused on making sure none of his current associates injure the child further - hopefully it just spooked him, but it looked like he hit the deck hard. The kid whines, half pain, half stressed as he picks it up. A pang of worry shoots down his spine. The kid could be injured. 

But spending time making sure the kid is actually fine will only further the point that he has a weak spot. He settles for swiping a gentle palm over the child's head, prodding gently to make sure there's no damage. The kid groans but looks up at him when he sets him down in the bunk. His little fists curl and he makes a soft sound, as if understanding the status of things.

Resilient little guy, Mando thinks. He dips his head in a small nod before closing the hatch and settling in to do the job. It’s the only acknowledgement he’s able to safely give, considering the circumstances. He isn't fooled. If the crew he's working with thinks he misses their pointed looks toward where the kid is stowed, they're dead wrong. None of them know anything about him.

He's not the kind of man they peg him as, though he feels the thrum of bloodlust beneath Mandalorian iron, knows the satisfaction of a kill. He knows he should not kill needlessly. He doesn't, even if it's what they think.

But if he's being honest, the bald one, the sharpshooter? Every time he sees the guy's face he's just a tiny bit more tempted to throw the guy out an airlock. He wouldn't lose a wink of sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter, but I promise tomorrow will make up for it! Happy New Year!


	8. Chapter 8

He dumps the droid's body onto the prison ship before they disengage. Qin is waiting with a menacing grin beside where the blackened metal body falls. He needs to think fast. The Twi'lek isn't patient, they don't have time, and considering what he's just found, he's done leaving anyone else alone with the kid. Even if they're cuffed and relatively ignorant.

The child looks up to him, rattled. He sighs. There are no good options and they are out of time. "If he opens this door, I want you to scream. Got it?"

The confused look he gets in reply doesn't cut it. It turns into a look of creeping terror when Qin's head pops up from the other side of the hull, and the child emits a soft, unmistakable growl. The Mandalorian reaches around the child. "Quiet," He whispers, so close that it's not picked up by his helmet, coming out as a muffled sound. An ear pricks and the child latches onto the top of his cuirass as he moves, angling himself away to show the empty bunk.

Qin snarls, menacing as he rises to full height. "Here I thought the droid might have earned his death," He scoffs, looking around. "You just wanted to finish the job."

The child tightens his grip as his protector moves. The Mandalorian doesn't answer, sealing off their attachment point with a wrist-driven control. He keeps his back to the other man, but his fingers twitch, ready to go for his blaster. He ascends the ladder.

"Don't touch anything," He says like an afterthought, pausing halfway up. "We'll be back to the port in short order."

The child's head is tucked beneath his chin, he can feel the tickle of soft fuzz against his neck where his cowl hangs down, loose from age. He climbs up the rest of the way, the child managing to evade Qin's detection. When he makes it to his feet in the cockpit, his left hand comes around the kid, to balance him on instinct.

"Just a little longer," He tells the child. "He won't be staying."

The child makes a concerned sound, mindful of his volume. His big eyes flick to the control knob he so frequently shoves into his mouth and back but he doesn't whimper or squirm to grab it, seemingly understanding the gravity of the situation.

"Good," He murmurs to the child, one hand sliding over his head, the other toggling the controls to uncouple the Razor Crest. He remembers the words the mechanic said, the way she had jumped to console the child, even as it made sounds as if to console her. He should do something to soothe him, he thinks. There are many words he could reach for, but they slip through his mind in a haze. "Good," He settles for, again. It'll have to do. The child coos into the canvas of his under armor gear, breath warm through the material at the base of his neck and-

 _Brave_ , The Mandalorian thinks. _You're being so brave._

Those are words that have been said to him before, once. Words muttered into his uncovered ear from behind a modulated helmet.

He shakes his head and focuses on getting them out of this situation before the tracker in the unsuspecting Twi'lek's pocket sees them to damnation. The child does not try to touch any of the buttons.

-/

Much later, the child sits outside the door of the ‘fresher. He can see the shape of a sack-sized lump with ears, hears the sound of him suckling on the ball from the control panel, shadowed against the foggy plastic door. Before, he’d take care of this - himself - after the kid fell asleep, throwing a blanket over his container as a precaution.

But the child won’t sleep. He cries if he’s laid down. Not loud, just fussy and uncomfortable, refusing to close his eyes. His ears haven’t lost that distrusting droop to them, as if there’s another enemy lurking just out of sight.

He never thought that would bother him. Though, he never thought a lot of things, most of all that he’d be caring for a tiny alien child of unknown species and unfathomable age. Alas, here they are. Him, trying to groom himself, dress his wounds from their most recent scuffle, and the child sitting outside the door like he’s on guard.

And it does bother him. At first he assumed it had something to do with the lack of privacy, that the child needed to be constantly underfoot as he divested himself of and polished the beskar of his armor. But the child wasn’t actually underfoot, he just stayed in sight. Quiet. Passive. Not his squeaky, chipper self. Those big eyes darted all around, as if looking for the next threat, and his ears would perk, listening carefully every minute or so for sounds of conflict around them.

Doing his best to be quick about it, cleans himself and changes into garments that look identical but washed, with mended damage instead of scorch marks and blood. He leaves his hands free of their gloves, aware that he’ll need to patch the slice Xi’an caused on his shoulder with her blades. The child titters, spooked when he taps the handle of his blade against the tiny drain as he grooms himself. The ball rolls away; The Mandalorian can hear it. Yet, there is no effort by the child to chase after it, to pick it up. He only leans back against the door a little more and sighs.

The child shouldn’t have to feel scared, he thinks. That is what bothers him. A child should feel protected. _He_ should be doing a better job protecting the kid, somehow; He has to figure out something. He finishes quickly, wiping down his helm and donning it just as his hair is nearly dry. He slides the door open carefully and the child flops backward, managing to land on the toe of the man’s boots with a quiet huff of surprise

“Everything alright?” He asks the child, who looks up into his helm, frowning. The kid rights himself with some added help in the form of the Mandalorian’s boot rising behind him to keep him from falling back. It’s gentle, though, and the kid rights himself fast.

The child doesn’t answer, waddling over to the corner near his bunk, retrieving the knob. He brings it to his protector and holds it up as high as he can. Even so, the Mandalorian has to bend over to take it from him.

“Thanks?”

No answer comes, the child toddles away. It’s not the first time he’s been given something by the child to hold, so he slips it into a pocket and gets to work cleaning his other undersuit, wiping away the grime on his under armor with a worn, bristled brush and a little bit of water they can spare. He’ll give it back when the child inevitably waddles over and tugs at his leg. He scrubs his pants. It takes a while. No interruption. He glances over. The child looks upset. He can see it, the way the kid looks down at his hand, scowling at it.

He scrubs a while longer before he checks back. The child is still brooding.

“Kid?”

The child doesn’t look at him when he speaks. He drops the brush into the basin he’s working out of. It rings loud in the otherwise silent cabin, the base of the brush bouncing off the durasteel metal of the basin with a clatter. The kid flinches. Simultaneously, the basin flies back and away from him, dirty water splashing across the floor of the cabin as if it’d been backhanded away from him. It crashes somewhere past the fresher, on the very far end of the ship, skidding to a stop with a scraping lurch. 

A singular green hand is outstretched, fingers coiled, body curled defensively. But his eyes aren’t scrunched closed, nor is he looking at the chaos he’s caused His eyes are on the Mandalorian, trying to discern if they are safe or not.

“Hey,” He says, gentle. He should be afraid of this unknown power, of what it does, its unpredictable nature. He can feel the thrum that says this is dangerous in his belly, but he does not feel afraid. Perhaps the first time, he was. This wasn’t an act of aggression. Fear, but not for himself. His stomach flips. Again, the child was trying to protect him. Carefully, the Mandalorian reaches out in front of him and feels the curve of a barrier that shouldn’t exist. He’d been crouched down, and doesn’t try to stand. He doesn’t know what, but he knows he has to do something. He starts by removing his wet gloves, setting them down carefully on the ground to prevent further commotion.

The child trembles and his tri-digit hand falls. The barrier slips like grains of sand between Mando’s fingers, whatever the child had done disappearing in an instant. He scrambles across the floor of the cabin on his knees - it’s not a far distance - and pulls the kid up to his chest.

“It’s over,” He tells the child, who headbutts him in the ribs for how hard he's trying to burrow into the Mandalorian's embrace. It’s not hard enough to hurt. The first sound that comes out of the little one is strangled and torn, a jagged, anguished cry. “It’s just us in here.” He pauses, the child isn’t listening. There’s no way. He’s fisted both hands in the Mandalorian’s rough canvas shirt, shoving his hot face against his protector and bawling, eyes open in tiny slits.

He rolls to his knees and eventually shifts, resting his back against the bottom part of the bunk, drawing his knees up like a wall behind the child. All he can do is wait, keeping the little one pressed snugly against his chest.

This isn’t right, he thinks. He sits with the child for a long time, ignoring his armor that’s long since dried, or the mess that’s been thrown across the shared space. He knows the world is cruel first hand. It doesn't change the fact that no child should ever have to feel such terror.

“You’re safe,” he murmurs, head bent down so that his helm nearly grazes the top of the child’s head but not quite. But that isn’t that isn't enough to make drooping, pinned back ears rise. 

The child sniffles against him, pulling back to look up into the beskar that covers his face. In those murky depths is a sorrow the likes of which the Mandalorian very intimately knows. 

His mind wanders to his parents. Of words he couldn’t hear over explosions, of death all around. Loss. How much loss has this little one endured in his long infancy, he wonders? How much of his time has been spent in darkness and fear? This child has nothing, he thinks. No one. His presence may truly be the only stability this young one has ever known. 

That’s tragic in its irony. He should not be the one, he thinks. Surely the galaxy can do better than him.

But the child, he realizes, doesn’t care about that. All the child cares about is-

“I’m here,” The Mandalorian promises. He doesn’t realize that he cradles the child against his chest a little tighter.


	9. Chapter 9

The child sleeps.

He lays the boy down carefully in his bunk while he dons his armor. He doesn't close the hatch.

There is still a wet spot on his shirt, but he lets his cuirass rest over it without changing. The beskar is cold and unfeeling compared to the child that had been curled against him, seeking solace. He pushes that aside. Methodically, he reattaches each piece of armor, glinting dangerously even in the fluorescent, artificial lighting of the ship.

It's comforting. He feels safer with the armor on. Less exposed. Even without a threat present.

The child doesn't rouse. He scoops him up, careful to place him so that his head is touching only the softer material from the cowl around his neck.

Using the ladder one handed isn't remotely difficult; He does so without thought these days. He looks into the container he's made into an all purpose child carrier, and sighs. Pulling out the blue blanket, the Mandalorian drapes it over the top of the container, carefully lowering the child into the middle of it and wrapping him up to stay warm.

A bleat of uncertainty comes from the well-wrapped bundle, Mando can see those big eyes moving beneath green eyelids that remain closed. The child isn’t actually awake.

"You're alright," He tells the child, leaning down into his container so that he doesn't have to speak as loud. His voice comes out without the amplification provided by his helmet, muffled and flat. "I'm here."

The child lets out a cry and it lances through him sharper than an errant blaster bolt. His gloved fingers trace over the child's forehead, gently as though they're hardly touching. He does not make shushing sounds or coddle it further, though it makes his chest feel tight to know the child finds comfort in his merciless hands, the babe tilts his head to follow the paths his fingers make.

When the baby's brow is no longer furrowed, he leans back in the pilot's chair and commits himself to scanning. He needs to find a long term solution to their predicament, but at the very least he really needs a place for them to lie low and figure that solution out.

Greef Karga's transmission comes about an hour into a fruitless search.

He knows it’s a trap.

But Karga isn’t entirely wrong.

The child murmurs something, stirring in the throes of a dream. Little fingers curl and settle, but the child does not open his eyes. Behind his helm, the Mandalorian watches the child breathe. Until the Imp is gone, the child will never be safe. Going back to Nevarro might be the most danger he’ll put the child in, but if he can play it right, perhaps the child could be free from this life. Maybe he could take the child back to a backwater planet, like Sorgan, and he could have a chance at a better life.

To that end…

He keys in the coordinates. If he's doing this, he's not going in alone. He needs eyes and ears he can trust. Hopefully Cara Dune liked that skughole enough to stick around.

-/

The sight of the droid in the Ugnaught’s hut makes every hair, every nerve, every part of him stand on end. Danger whispers in the space between his breaths. His heart feels like it’s in his throat, a phantom of experience and recent memory converging into something oil-slick and dark in his lungs. He can feel the child’s gaze on his back, can feel the static of Cara’s concern and curiosity. She’d follow his lead, but Kuill remains steadfast. The Mandalorian doesn’t trust it; This droid exists to kill, to destroy.

He lowers his gun, but the surge of protectiveness doesn’t fade.

Later, he goes to speak to the Ugnaught once the droid is away from the child and Cara is lingering close by, polishing her blaster. When he returns, Cara is close to nodding off and the child is awake but quiet.

Kuiil offers them shelter for the night, but Cara returns to the ship almost immediately. He can feel her discomfort. They were on opposite sides of a war, and he can tell that war still lingers in her mind. He understands, though he does not know - or care to know - her life’s story.

He does not decline the invite to stay outside the ship, though he hardly plans to sleep. The child sleeps in his makeshift container beside Kuill’s bedroll at the back of the hut. The Mandalorian lingers outside the opening, his back braced against the taut tarp. The droid is out in the Ugnaught’s workshop doing who knows what, but the Mandalorian will not allow the child to be with the supposed ex-hunter unit without at least one living person he can trust (with a gun).

The sky is awash with stars when he hears the sound of something inside the hut behind him shift, the sound of Kuiil’s breaths, even in sleep, eclipsed by a quiet sigh and a grunt. The child’s footsteps are muffled by his oversized tunic, but his bare feet pad with almost inaudible slaps across the mats on the floor.

This planet is not cold at night. The air stays warm but lacks humidity, and the child sighs when his face meets the cool, pleasant wind. His ears drift with it, flicking once, and then his dark eyes turn, as if knowing precisely where he’ll be.

“Can’t sleep?” He whispers, voice rough.

The child hums some sound and plunks himself down beside the armored warrior, fingers combing through the pressed, gritty ground of the planet. A frog croaks somewhere in the distance and the child’s head lifts, ears perking, listening.

“Go ahead,” He tells the child. “Might be a bit before you’ll get to run around again.”

“Eh?”

It almost sounds like an appropriate response, but the tinge of a toddler’s tone tells him it’s a reaction to the sound of his voice rather than a complete understanding of his caretaker’s words.

He pushes himself up off the ground, walking towards the pen that keeps the Blurrgs. The child follows dutifully. He scans the dark ground, looking for frogs in the dark, pausing briefly as he realizes the absurdity of him using his hud for the amusement of the baby hot on his heels. Even so, he doesn’t stop what he’s doing, only crouches down and points in the direction in which he can see their minimal heat signatures.

The child giggles, patting him as he passes. When he captures the amphibian, he turns to look and see if his protector is looking. Mando is, but he obstinately turns his head away, bracing his hands on his belt, pretending not to hear the loud gulp of the child swallowing it whole.

Afterwards, the little one wanders back toward him. “Did you catch one?” He asks, as though he hasn’t caught the entirety of the situation.

A pleased chirp is his reply, the child grinning up at him, tiny teeth gleaming in the dark.

“Good job, little one,” The Mandalorian murmurs, receiving a chitter of acknowledgement for his trouble. “C’mon.” He keeps his steps slow enough for the child to stay beside him until they return to their previous resting place outside the hut’s entrance. The child climbs atop his lap and the Mandalorian lets him.

Together, they watch the stars until the sky burns into morning.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys probably aren't going to like me too much for this one...

The child hasn't been partial to extended periods of time in the 'Crest's cabin since he'd taken that last job from Ran. He tolerates it, but now, with the cabin filled with blurrgs and people he knows and yet are not constant companions, it is harder. The kid is fussy. He doesn't mind the Ugnaught, nor does Kuill mind entertaining him, but still, he is uneasy.

Not that the Mandalorian can blame him. He too is on edge about trusting Kuill and allowing the child's almost-murderer - rehabilitated or not - to stay on the ship. The Ugnaught insists the rule is unnecessary but abides by it nonetheless. Mando cannot find it within himself to trust this particular hunk of scrap. 

Tension lingers beneath the surface, more pronounced than usual. The knowledge of how particularly poor this plan could - and likely will be - the fact that he has to use the child as legitimate bait in hopes of thwarting the throngs of hunters who have surely been promised compensation for the child’s capture or execution.

It lessens for a moment when he's competing with Cara. The blurrgs have settled down at the rear of the ship, the droid is off cleaning something, and Kuiil has finally sat down, intending to relax. His attention shifts to Shock Trooper. She talks as good as she fights. She’s a solid adversary and a far more valuable ally. He's not one for conversation, but really, she's not bad.

Her grip on his hand goes slack before she pulls back entirely, body seizing. Immediately, he knows something is wrong. She gasps, choking, like something invisible is actively robbing her of breath. There is no reason for it, he thinks, frozen, and then the reality of it hits him.

_ The child. _ He turns his head once - sees a hand reaching out. 

_ Is the child capable of that? _ Twice - a frown, a fist that clenches around something unseen. 

_Yes,_ he realizes, sharply. Unsettled. It's shocking. _The child is capable of violence._

Anger swirls in the child’s narrowed eyes. Directed at Cara. He lunges, instinct reminding him that the child can’t use whatever power he has for long. “No!” He barks. One firm jostle, “No, no! Stop!” But it’s his alarmed yell that jolts the the child out of whatever ability it’d been using. He hears Cara take sharp, full breaths, but he can’t look away from the child, the way he shakes beneath his palms. Fear, he realizes. The child is frightened.

Perhaps he believed Cara was an enemy. Did he still-?

“We’re friends, we’re friends,” Mando exclaims, hoping it's enough of an explanation. Firmly, he tells the boy, “Cara is my friend!”

It doesn’t change what has transpired.

Cara helps herself to his bunk after she and the Ugnaught nearly come to blows. Her breath comes normal, it’s apparent whatever the child had done did not cause permanent damage. The Ugnaught begins to see what he can use to create the child’s carrier with what materials they have onboard. The Mandalorian drops back into his previous seat beside the child lying in the container. It had been babbling before, right after things had happened. Now, it doesn’t move.

This whole thing bothers him. He cannot bring himself to speak to the child, to console him. He sees the way the child’s hands fist in his tunic, the way his eyes are glossy as he blinks up into the nothingness of the cabin’s durasteel ceiling. They sit in silence for the better part of an hour. When the child shifts, sniffing sadly and reaching out a hand to curl over the side of the container, head shifting to look his way, the Mandalorian fails to resist the urge to shift and look away from him.

He sees the child wilt in his periphery, curling in on himself, returning its sad, frightened gaze to the ceiling.

“Regardless of age,” Kuiil says, across the cabin, “He is still a baby. He thought you were in trouble and reacted.”

Cara scoffs, “Where was that for the cycle you spent on Sorgan?” She crosses her arms as she leans against the inside wall of the bunk, legs crossed at the ankles in front of her. “We had blasters pointed at each other, and the kid thought it was lunchtime entertainment.”

He remains quiet for a moment. “The last people - the only people who were on the ship with him aside from me… harmed him. At least, they tried to. Things have been… difficult lately,” He finally manages.

“You will need to teach him right from wrong. Help him to understand what is acceptable and what is not appropriate.”

“I am not his parent.”

“Perhaps you do not see it this way,” Kuiil sets down the scrap, crosses the distance between them, and takes up Cara’s former chair, facing the Mandalorian. His eyes are bright as they look up into his helm. “But the child takes its cues from you.” He rises, his point made, and rounds the table to look down at the child, offering his arms. The child does not react, though he’s always agreeable to being held. “I do not believe his actions were malicious,” The Ugnaught looks to Cara. “He believed his protector to be in danger and reacted.”

She glares back, unimpressed. Eventually, when he does not relent, she sighs. “I don’t think so either,” She looks to Mando while Kuiil returns to his seat. “Look, if this thing’s a baby and it can do  _ that _ ,” She rolls her eyes, acting as though she’s more put out by the kid’s actions instead of scared shitless, “I can see why some Imp wants it.”

“Did the Mandalorian tell you about the mudhorn?” 

Cara looks between the two men. “No,” She drawls. She’d been too fired up to care about the mention of it before.

Kuiil turns toward her, angled on the metal seat. “I will tell you what he has told me.” He looks to the Mandalorian, “Go. Take time if you need it.”

“The child-”

“Will be fine in present company.” He looks to Cara to confirm.

The Dropper inhales, steeling herself. “Go,” She echoes. “The Ugnaught’s on baby duty and I don’t think the kid will want to upset you again so soon.” She gestures to the child lying in the container. “We’ll be fine.”

He rises to his feet, crossing the short width of the cabin. He feels like he's slow moving, underwater. He does not look back at the child.

-/

He does not mean to fall asleep. It's not surprising that he had, left blissfully alone without interruption, being able to finish a thought without having to perpetually have eyes and ears out for whatever mischief the child decided to have. Based on what he's reading on dash, he's managed to get several hours of quality sleep. 

They still have the better part of a day before they'll be to Nevarro. That's fine. He's not looking to rush anything. He checks the scanners, stretching carefully. It's never terribly comfortable to sleep in the pilot's chair of the Razor Crest, but he's slept in plenty of uncomfortable places. He'll take what he can get.

When he descends the ladder into the cabin, it's far darker than he'd left it. The wash of lights from the instrument panels is the only aid he has in seeing, but nothing seems to stir at the sound he makes.

A glance at his bunk shows the hatch closed, so he assumes Cara is trying to get some shut-eye as well. The Ugnaught is asleep near the blurrgs, who do not make any sound themselves, the child's new, incomplete pram beside him. The droid lingers not far from his new master, feeding one of the large animals lest it shuffle and fuss, waking the others.

He shuffles quietly over to his stock of rations and pulls something out, turning just as quietly to head back up to the cockpit, locking the hydraulics behind him. The helmet rests on the seat beside him, and the strange though not entirely unpleasant ration puffs up into some kind of meat and bread roll once he opens the package. He eats in silence, listening for any sounds that would indicate someone trying to join him. It doesn’t take long to eat without interruption, and he allows himself an extra moment to hydrate before slipping the helmet back on, shoving his hair back from his face. 

Only after does he close his eyes, reclining against the seat and allowing himself to think about the events that transpired earlier. He had tried earlier, but all he’d managed to do was make himself frustrated.

The child had harmed - it likely would have killed Cara, had he not intervened - with its unknown powers. It’s one thing if there was a direct attack on the kid’s livelihood, but this was unprovoked. Cara had never harmed the child. Not in all the time they coexisted on Sorgan, not now.

A faint knock on the door of the cockpit jerks him from his thoughts and he toggles the opening, knowing that he hadn’t heard the clomping trudge of the droid. Cara inclines her head and drops into the seat behind him to the left, looking at the readout on the control panel.

“I’m not pissed at your kid,” She says, instead of a greeting. “So you know.”

“He’s not-”

“Yes, he is.” She props the gun she’d taken from his stores behind her. “You shot up the guild, you’ve been running all over the galaxy-”

“I-”

“You’re having the old man make him a new crib,” She prods, eyebrows raised. 

He turns to look at her. “That was his choice. I only wanted-”

She glares at him as though he’s thicker than the beskar. “Look, Mando, I get it. I don’t do the kid thing, but you're doing it, and it’s not going so bad.”

“He almost killed you,” He recalls. “That’s what you said earlier.”

“We're not exactly passive-types. Kid obviously thought I was trying to hurt you." She shrugs it off. "Anyway, you should be thanking him for rigging it in your favor.” She waves a hand, smirking, “I had you beat.”

“I’m not equipped to handle that,” He pauses, turning away from her and looking out at the stars as they pass. “Any of this. I just need to get the heat off the kid, find him somewhere safe, and then I’m out.” He says it with a note of finality.

“Right,” She throws out in an unconvinced slur. Rising, she tosses a polishing rag at her weapon, leaving it where it is. It’s obvious she’ll come back up for it later. “Denial doesn’t look good on you, Mando.”


	11. Chapter 11

He sits on one of the lower rungs of the ladder.

Kuiil has the child facing his project, the blurrgs shuffling and grunting softly in the background. Cara is up in the cockpit again, enjoying the peace and quiet. Once they land, they’ll have to be on guard the entire time. 

The Ugnaught talks to the child as he works. The kid stands in its current container, watching as his new pram is constructed. It’s coming together. The child coos every so often, but it’s softer than usual. It seems that’s purposeful. His ears are downward cast, though at sharp sounds they jerk to attention, as though expecting a harsh rebuke.

Sparks stop after a few moments, and the craftsman looks around. Whatever he needs must be out of reach, he cannot reach it.

“That multitool is what I need,” He tells the child, who looks at him, tilting his head.

“Can you hand it to me?” He asks, hushed, as if imparting a secret. He squeezes his hand and reaches toward it, to illustrate his point.

The Mandalorian swallows thickly, eyes darting to the inconspicuous object. What is the Ugnaught thinking?

Kuiil nods once when the child’s gaze lands on it, across the width of the cabin. His chin rises, but he doesn’t quite smile. “I believe,” He encourages the young one, “That you can.”

The child looks at it, raising his open palm. The tool rises slowly, shaking. The child does too, concentrating. It drifts in front of the child, who moves his hand in the same arc, but very slowly. Kuiil holds out his hand and the multitool drops into his palm from a scant distance above it.

“Well done,” He tells the child, patting him on the head with his free hand. “This,” He waves the tool, “Was heavier than the bolts. But now, I have the tools to tighten them.” He leans over his work once more.

The Mandalorian exhales a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, and the child turns. “You’ve been having him do things?”

Kuiil does not acknowledge him right away. When he does straighten back to his full height, he puts his unoccupied hand back on the child’s head. “What the child did earlier frightened you," He comments.

“Only a fool would not be concerned.”

The child shrinks down, sitting in the container and looking at his tiny hands.

“The Dropper is right to assume that this child would be valuable to what remains of the Empire with its abilities.” He exhales, lips parting. “Most of what I have heard is harrowing.”

“Tell me.”

“I will not.” He looks at the Mandalorian. “Those at the center of that which was whispered were nothing like the child. Never once has the child used its abilities in his own self interest.”

“Saving me from the mudhorn-”

“You had saved it from a droid,” Kuiil reminds the taller man. “You were near death. It cost him a great deal to assist you, I remember the state it was in, afterward. Even what he has done here and now tires him.” He looks away. “It did not harm you or anyone that you know of when you turned it over the first time,” He speculates, and Mando’s silence confirms it. “It has never harmed you when you rebuked it. If it had, I doubt you would go to such lengths to keep it safe. Do you think this is a child who is inherently evil? That what it did will be some type of new constant?”

“No,” Mando answers immediately. “I don’t.”

Seemingly satisfied, Kuiil works silently for a few moments, the only sound in the cabin that of clicking tools and the rattle of tested stability. Then, the Ugnaught asks, “What are you to this child?”

The Mandalorian’s reply comes lightning fast. “Does that matter?”

The tool is set down and the Ugnaught sighs. “A life is worth more than several times its weight in beskar,” He tells the Mandalorian, gesturing to the gleaming armor that covers the warrior’s chest. “The child would not react so strongly if you were simply satisfying the ache of your guilt. His reaction was borne of fear and the desire to protect you.”

In the silence that follows, Kuiil changes directions, commenting, “I think the child wishes for you to hold him, and I don’t doubt that you would, if we were not here to witness it.”

“I’m not worried about my pride, if that’s what you think.”

“It is not,” Kuiil responds evenly.

“Then what?” He snaps.

The child makes a squawk, as if rebuking him for being rude to someone who has shown him kindness. “It’s alright,” Kuiil says, with a sideways glance at him. His wise gaze flicks back to the other adult. “You have much to learn, Mandalorian.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You will understand eventually, this I am sure of.” He looks down on his project and decides the conversation has gone on long enough. “Take the child. I need to focus if I am to finish his cradle in time, and he will impede my progress.” 

Mando doesn’t hesitate despite the other man's obvious ulterior motives, crossing the cargo bay with purpose. He reaches the child and looks down. Now, he hesitates.

Kuiil is not looking, his back is turned, and yet somehow he knows. “Your distance has made its point. But you must reinforce that point with compassion and understanding.” When the Mandalorian inhales, Kuill hammers over what would be a retort. “Children make mistakes. Regardless of what you perceive your role in his life to be, you may not get to choose how he sees you. It may be a position you have already earned.”

“But-”

“Leave me to my work.”

“Kuiil-”

“I have spoken.”

The Mandalorian looms over the child. The little one blinks, fisting his hands in his tunic, ears pointed down, frown set deep as it had been the first time he’d seen him. Then, the child peers up into his helm and makes a quizzical sound, eyes seeming wider, glossy with concern. Mando can see his apprehension.

“Come on,” He says to the child, voice dropping soft and deep. “It’s alright.”

One hand uncurls, then the other. He makes a soft sound of uncertainty, ears rising and falling, assessing.

The Mandalorian pats his head gently. “I could use a copilot,” He tells the child. It's hardly a decent offer, this cryptic half-apology. “But only if you don’t try to recreate your last stunt.” Still, he reaches out his hands in a peace offering and the child raises his arms, accepting. Snuggling against the rough canvas of the Mandalorian’s cowl, he’s asleep before they’re halfway up to the cockpit.

Cara does her best to hide the smirk at the child when he brushes past her. She does not say anything when the Mandalorian adjusts his cloak before he sits in the pilot’s seat, though the only reason he does so is so that the material hangs around the child like a blanket.


	12. Chapter 12

Dread churns in his gut, lessened only slightly by the knowledge that the child is okay. He’d leaned in to be sure the child was unharmed before closing his newly reinforced carrier, and waited until the last of the beasts had limped off injured before opening it once more. The child would more than likely be cooped up for an extended period of time over the course of the coming day, and he did not want the child to be at risk any more than he had to be. The prim was reinforced and generally blaster-proof, which was a plus. But those winged creatures had lifted two of the blurrgs; The Mandalorian had no doubt they could easily carry off the child and pierce the protective pod.

Karga is on the ground, lying through his teeth that he’s fine. Cara’s soldier instincts surface and she’s already reacting, trying to triage the poisoned guild leader. The poison travels fast. From the dim flames, Mando can see the necrotic web-like tendrils that snake across Greef’s skin as the poison spreads through his veins.

He feels like his eyes have hardly been off the child for a moment, but he blinks and Cara is hissing for Kuiil to remove the kid, to get him away from what will be quite a scene if Karga dies here and now. It’s likely, they have no antidote, no med packs, and he’d been injured at the onset of their There’s no doubt his men are hardly trustworthy, and without their leader, he doubts the plan will be salvageable.

Something awed passes over Kuiil’s features. He holds up a hand. “Wait,” The Ugnaught murmurs, strangely gentle. The child’s hand comes down over the wound, purposeful and slow.

Nothing happens right away, save for the child’s shaking and Greef’s commentary. Even near death, he still has to say something. The silence becomes tense, but Karga’s eyes blink open, his gaze drops to his arm in confusion. The tangled knots of raised, poisoned veins curl inward instead of unfurling.

Instead of charred land and lava rock, the Mandalorian smells cauterized flesh. He blinks, and sees a white pram, narrowed eyes and an outstretched hand before a violet orange sunset. A miracle child, reaching toward him with good intent.

Another blink and he’s meeting the wild-eyed, thankful glance of one very healed Greef Karga. Kuiil stares down at the man in what is truly unabashed awe, the hand on his shoulder to hold him steady no longer necessary. Greef’s arm is smooth and perfect, no scars, no broken skin, as if the wound slipped beneath the surface of his skin entirely.

Kuiil’s knowing gaze meets that of the Mandalorian. He does not smile, but something impressed and awed, something almost knowing is rooted in that glance. If he weren’t reeling, Mando would probably find it reassuring.

Karga exchanges a glance with his men standing nearby before asking, “Mando, how did-”

He takes a step to the left, dipping down to catch the child before he falls flat on his back, exhausted. Kuiil nods, only once, something proud gleaming in his light eyes. The child makes a sound of disquiet and the Mandalorian tucks him into the crook of his arm, the plating on his gauntlets meant to be a shield in case anyone tries anything now that they’ve seen the child do this incredible thing.

“Surely there is some explanation for this miracle,” Karga is saying. “The child has saved my life,” He mutters, once, twice, and then over again, in disbelief. His men look uncomfortable, the two of them that are left. If they’re distraught about the loss of their third, they don’t say so. “That shouldn’t have been possible,” He continues. “Is this why you were so hell bent on keeping him for yourself?”

Sleepy brown eyes blink up at the Mandalorian, something fond and fierce taking up residence in him without warning. “This has nothing to do with it,” He admits like a confession of guilt, though he’d hardly be dishonest. He is trapped by his own mind, his own conscience, unable to look away from the boy in his arms for a long moment. When he does, Cara dips her hand in a solemn nod, hand on the gun draped across her lap. Understanding.

Much, much later when all has gone quiet, when the pop of the fire and even breaths are all that remains in the darkness, the Mandalorian brings himself to speak. “You tried to heal me once,” He murmurs soft enough that the words stay between them. His voice is rough, thick. “Didn't you?"

The answer the Mandalorian seeks does not come between the tiny exhalations of the child. It eats at him, and perhaps that's foolish, but-

The child tried multiple times to aid him, after he'd captured it. To heal him, he now knows. And what had he done? He'd deposited the child back into its pram like the prisoner he was, sealing him away. No better than the last faction that had him, Mando is sure. Maybe worse, he considers. If the last group that had him knew of his abilities, they likely would have exploited him.

It makes him furious. Anger wells in his chest, hot and protective. At the Imp and his men. At himself, even more than them.

The child squirms in his arms, as if sensing his distress.

He runs his gloved fingers carefully over the little one's wrinkled forehead, barely grazing his nose or eyelids. The baby's mouth moves, flashing pearly teeth as he smacks his lips and settles.

His eyes open.

"Why did you trust me?" The Mandalorian wonders.

He does not realize he's said it aloud until a tiny hand reaches up to his chin, touching the cheek of his helmet. He feels it like the child's hand has sunk though, touched skin. As though he is bare, unmasked. The child evaluates him seriously, blinking several times before making that sad, yearning coo.

 _I don't know how you think I'm what's best for you,_ He muses, biting his lip to be sure the words do not escape. If it hadn't been an Imperial who had commissioned the bounty, he likely wouldn't have asked questions, wouldn’t have given it a second thought in the first place.

Right? Some unsettled part of him wonders despite it: Would he have been swayed regardless when the child saved him? Would he have had second thoughts or would he have continued in his way, trading an innocent life for a camtono of beskar? Whatever syndicate took hold of him surely wouldn't be satisfied unless they could weaponize or exploit that power.

The hand on his helm drops and pushes against his chest. The child turns his head into the crook of his arm beneath his pauldron, his face pressed above the Mandalorian's ribs, almost in his armpit. He brings his little legs up, curling into a ball. From his vantage point, he sees one oversized ear pressed against his undersuit, sees the child's eyes blink and soften, blurred with sleepiness.

Still, the child pats his chest, and how he knows where the Mandalorian's heart is, is beyond him. 

Even so, the message comes across loud and clear. He can feel his heartbeat, knows the echo of blood pumping in his ears. 

_Here_ , The child is saying, without so many words. _I know you, here._

-/

The child cries out when he realizes Kuiil is taking him away. Behind his helm, the Mandalorian grimaces but his hands are already bound. They are too close to a breakthrough. The child has managed to turn things around: the life he saved has saved them from further betrayal. 

"That little bugger is pretty attached to you," Karga comments, that warm lilt to his voice almost soft. "You've never struck me as a father type."

Dismissing that statement feels wrong, to respond blunt and harsh gives things away that Mando doesn't understand. Denying it feels more like a lie than it does the truth, and he does his best to be honest with himself, no matter how ugly it is, how damning.

"Kid doesn't deserve to have the Imps trying to capture and kill him," He says, because that much is honest.

"I know just what you mean."

 _No,_ the Mandalorian thinks. _You don't know anything._


	13. Chapter 13

His ears are ringing and he cannot see. He thinks his eyes are open. Everything is white and spotty, out of focus.

Explosion, he thinks, registering pinpricks of numbness and pain. His body is past it's limit, at that point where pain does not mean anything. 

It's hard to breathe. He has to think about it, and that makes whatever is happening to his head - it's hot, slick and wet beneath his helmet. He's bleeding. There's blood in his mouth and he swallows, keeps it back. Trickling from his nose, too. Probably his ears as well. He feels like he's somewhere else. Not in his body, his thoughts are scattered, who was his bounty, again?

"Stay with me, buddy," Someone grits, worried. He must be injured badly. They're dragging him. That doesn't bother him like it should. He feels like everything is far away.

Someone drops him against a board or something, he's in a room and-

Everything comes crashing in, all together, all at once, then fractures apart when Cara leans over him. There's blood in his throat, he feels like he's drowning. There's a crushing pain in his chest, his head feels like it's smashed, crushed against the back of his helmet. He can feel his legs, but they won't listen to him. He can't move, he thinks, and he expects panic, but his mind is hazy and silent.

He was shot, he thinks muzzily. Before the explosion. One of the two he'd probably walk away from. But the combination of both…

"I'm not gonna make it," He says, looking up at Cara. “Go.” He sounds as weak as he feels, come to think of it. It’s becoming more difficult to breathe. The tiredness that washes over him is different, somehow. It feels final. He just needs a few minutes longer.

She refuses to take that as an answer. She’s a good person, he thinks. He’s glad she’s here, that they’re friends. He feels for her, when her joke falls flat with worry. He’d tell her that, but she slides her hand back, around his neck, under the edge of the helm. He feels it, the shift. He knows why he can’t feel it. 

The look she gives her hand tells him he’s right. He’s not gonna make it out of this one. "Leave me."

His tongue feels thick in his mouth when he pulls the necklace off, fingers almost too weak to snap the cording. He gives instructions without thinking, he knows once they find the covert, the Mandalorians will help them. Cara just has to get the child to them, and they’ll keep them safe. The Mandalorians took care of him, once. They’ll care for his foundling.

It’s pathetic that this is what it takes for him to consider what the child is to him. That he slakes claim on this innocent creature as his own only to abandon him. But he cannot abandon his creed, either, not even in the face of death. This is the path he has chosen, the only reason he has come this far. He will see it through. Perhaps someday the child will forgive him for it.

Though the flames may take them all with him. He doesn’t see where it comes from the first time. Instead he’s honed in on the worried chirp, feels something near his feet move and he suddenly realizes: it’s the child. He’s been watching.

There’s a trooper in the doorway with a flamethrower, he realizes. Cara’s thrown herself over him, still insistent that he’s coming with them. They need to go. He doesn’t want them to die with him. He just needs to get to his gun, move the hand limp in Cara’s grasp, but he’s slow. He’ll never beat the other to the draw, even at this distance.

Not that it would matter. His addled brain reminds him that the explosion of the weapon would likely have a big enough blast to kill them anyway, considering all the obstacles in the room that would become flaming shrapnel.

The incinerator trooper raises his gun. 

The child takes a step towards the enemy and raises his hands in reply, making it clear: He is not done fighting.

It’s not quite disbelief that he stares into the flames with. Surely if he were in his right mind, he would have deeper feelings on the subject, but his body is mostly numb and he’s dying whether he likes it or not. He feels Cara take a shaky breath, squeeze his hand, and look up into the fire that’s walled off in front of the child with something half awe and half terror. If he can’t hold that barrier or whatever it is, the flames will annihilate him-

Mando looks away. He doesn’t want to see. He wants, more than anything right now, he wants the child to live. To be free.

The trooper screams. Cara exhales a relieved breath when the child falls back, spent. The child had done it, had saved them all once again. He looks. The trooper - gun and all - has been blown back through the door. It won’t be the last of them, but they should have time to escape now.

The droid manages to open the sewer vent, reaching for the Child while he urges Cara onward. He trusts her to comply with his wishes, even if she despises them. She takes the child retrieves her gun from the smoldering booth and ducks into the sewer vent. The droid stays behind.

Resigned, he exhales shakily and commits himself. 

At least he’ll die a warrior’s death: In battle, with something precious to protect.

It’s worth it.

-/

He doesn’t remember when the droid relinquishes his hold, when Cara ducks beneath his arm. It comes and goes in pieces, fragments that shift and shatter like broken glass. He can’t see straight, can’t look up from the ground for fear of throwing his equilibrium even more. There is no doubt he spends more time leaning against Cara with the majority of his weight, completely out of it. He doesn’t know where they’re going, just that the covert is somewhere in this tangle of underground tunnels.

He comes back to himself when Cara stops. It’s only for a second, his vision blurs and everything fades out. She readjusts her hold on him, and he realized that Karga’s got a hand braced against his side to keep him afloat.

“...ando? Hey, Mando!” He doesn’t realize that Cara’s talking to him. She jostles him as mildly as she can. It hurts, but it doesn’t really do anything. She gives it a second, sounds far more apprehensive when she speaks next. “Din?”

The tentative sound of his given name makes him blink spots out of his eyes, tip his head. “Yeah?” The end of the word trails on a second too long.

“Tell your kid you’re okay.”

The child is peeking out of the bag, ears perked high in concern. It only takes a second-long glance from Cara for the droid to step in front of them. At that angle, the child’s right under his nose.

He lifts a hand up, the one that’s not slung over Cara’s shoulders, and pats the kid’s head clumsy-like. Little one’s ears droop, pinned back, and his eyes are glossy and terrified. “S’okay,” He tries to reassure the child, sounding sloppy, concussed and tired. “‘M gonnabe fine.” He’d be embarrassed about the way his words run together, but the child is reaching his hands up to touch his sooty, dirty gloves, to hold onto him, too. They don't have time for this now. “B’we gotta keep movin’.”

The kid coos, soft and sad. 

“Yup,” Cara agrees, breezy. “Lift your head up and tell me if you feel like you’re going to pass out,” She orders.

He tries and it’s an easy fail. “No,” He lies anyway. “Just… Don’t let go of me,” He mumbles. It’s humbling, this whole situation is. They shuffle on.

The child begins shuffling uncomfortably a few moments later. IG-11 peels back the covering. “Master Kuiil says that your powers take a lot out of you,” He rebukes the child, in full nursedroid mode. “The medication I have administered will heal the Mandalorian in due time. Continuing to fuss will only aggravate your injuries.”

The word comes out loud. He surprises himself.  _ “What?” _

“We gotta keep moving,” Greef reminds him with a nudge. “Walk and talk, but be quiet about it.”

“The kid is injured?” His slur dissipates, but it’s more than likely caused by fury, not the bacta infusion kicking in. “What happened?”

“I rescued the child from two scout troopers. They bludgeoned him repeatedly. It likely hurts him, but I did not want to treat him with bacta unless the injuries were life threatening.”

The Mandalorian swallows and asks, gruff, “Did they live?”

“I served my base function and protected the child,” IG-11 confirms.

The droid’s response earns the masked warrior’s approval. “Better you than me. I’d probably still be punching them.” Cara and Greef share a glance around him that says they clearly suspect brain damage. He’s not usually so vocal about those kinds of things.

“My programming encourages emotional responses as well. I am not proud of how violently I reacted.”

“I’m sure you reacted just fine,” He retorts, not unkind. He ignores Cara’s surprised glance, lifting his head. There’s a little less dizziness and nausea, but he’s still not good enough to walk on his own. Together, they stumble forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've made it known that we'll have 16 chapters to this happy little story. After which, I'm going to continue on in a new fic in which I write an attempt at what I'd think would be an exciting second season. I hope you stick around for it! All your support gives me life, and I'm so happy to be able to bring you my take on this precious found family.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was... really darn hard to write. I hope I did it justice. So much of the framework for these moments was perfect how they appeared in the episode, and I want to enhance scenes versus summarize them.

The Armorer has always been a comfort with her unwavering, unyielding strength, dedication to her Tribe, her wisdom and knowledge.

Looking at her now, his heart beating rapidly with barely restrained bloodlust, he cannot believe what he hears. This child could be an enemy. More than that, she knows. She knows what the child is. He can't not ask her.

… But her response is not what he's expecting.

"It is a foundling,” She imparts, the very definition of regal. “By Creed, it is in your care."

It's one thing for him to think fleetingly of the child as a foundling, but he was - it was almost the end. This kid isn't really his foundling. The kid was his bounty, once upon a time. He just needed to make sure the kid would be cared for by someone better equipped if he bit it. The tribe takes care of their young, they're warriors who could keep him safe.

"You want me to train this thing?"

"It is too weak," She says, crisply, like a swing of her hammer. "It would die."

This kid isn't a Mandalorian. Could never be, he thinks. He hadn't entertained the thought, but somehow it felt hollow to hear it confirmed. Bitter. 

The Armorer remains engrossed in her task as he gives him instructions. Tells him to find the child's kind, enemies or not. Return him to them. That is what the Mandalorians do for their foundlings. 

But… That isn't the priority. There is more to it than that. These Imps slaughtered his tribe, hunted them. They deserve to die. A place, deep and dark within him wants them to suffer for what they have done to his people, his family.

He's staying. He can heal, and he will fight. Cara and Greef can escape, take the ship, the droid, the kid, do what they have to. They'll keep the child safe. This isn't their fight.

He's staying.

The Armorer's tone is authoritarian. His ears feel hot beneath his helm, her directives are absolute. "You  _ must _ go. A  _ foundling _ is in your care."

She does not mince her words, does not have to give great speeches to break through to him. They spoke of the foundlings often.  _ Reserve some for the foundlings _ , he'd say of his spoils. Always.

In a quieter moment, before any of this really started, he'd reminded her. Reminded himself.  _ I was once a foundling. _

_ I know,  _ She'd said.

Now, she is not looking at him. She does not spare him a glance he would know only by the tilt of her head to be soft and understanding. She does not stray from her task, dipping the mold she had poured, cooling beskar.

She speaks to her work, knowing that he’ll listen. That he seeks answers, to be shown the path before him. That he might be man and metal, but sometimes he is still just as lost as he was the day he was found. "By Creed, until it is of age or reunited with its own kind, you are as its father."

He wants to protest. He did not ask for this. He cannot do this - regardless of what the Armorer or the child think - there is no way he -

"You have earned your signet."

The mold, the Mandalorian realizes. She'd had that. It's… she knew.

His eyes close, and his back straightens. He wants to know when. When did she make it? When he'd endangered the covert, forced them to expose themselves, to abandon their silence and secrecy to aid him? In the aftermath, when their tribe was being hunted and slaughtered by Imperial troops for his choice? 

Why? He is no more deserving of it now than he was of it then.

She solders it to his pauldron and her fingers are firm against the unarmored part of his arm. She holds him in place, he does not breathe, he cannot move.

The child looks at him, quizzical but seemingly aware of the importance of this moment. His eyes flash in a way that's wiser than his years and he's reminded of that sorrow he'd seen in them, days ago. That sorrow he knew in himself, reflected back at him with understanding.

Her hand does not linger on his arm, but she squeezes before letting go. A silent endorsement.

"You are a clan of two," She advises, but-

_ You have made right, Din Djarin, _ is what she means.

This, is the choice he has made. This, means something.

-/

The ground rushes to meet him with startling quickness, and he can't help but feel the itch of the Armorer's disapproval. He's not healed yet. His maneuvers are sloppy and undisciplined. He needs to train, he thinks, around Karga and Dune's commentary. 

His ribs give an idle twinge at the thought and grimaces. Healing first. Lots of healing.

Motion at his feet draws him from his thoughts. He looks down and the child's tiny hands come out to grab his leg, blunt claws sliding across the worn material. The child coos, trilling happily. He's smiling.

Karga distracts him for a moment, but when he bends down, the child's hands come up slowly. He knows Greef wants him back in with the guild, and with Cara sticking around as well… Admittedly, the three of them make a pretty okay team.

There's just - the child chirps at him when he pulls him up, cradling him with one arm, his hand held between the Mandalorian's fingers. Cara smiles, then, already knowing.

His priorities now, they're different.

The child does not startle when he's adjusted midair, though in hindsight, Mando realizes that was hardly safe for the little one. His grip on the kid is steady though, and the child is happy to be allowed to clutch onto him so tightly.

"Keep holding on," He tells the child, who makes an enthused gurgle. "We'll be back to the ship soon."

Touching down again is arguably more difficult when they're coming in slowly. He tries to reduce their altitude slowly, the child is clenching and unclenching his fists in his bloody cowl, subdued. They hit the ground hard, but the Mandalorian stumbles and does not fall, pulling back the child from his chest so that he's not looking over his protector’s shoulder at the blurrg and Kuiil, their bodies still sprawled out across the ashen ground.

As if understanding, the child squirms and makes a forlorn sound.

"I know," He agrees, reaching with his free hand to open the ship's hatch via his bracer. "I'm going to lay them to rest," He says, setting the child down atop a trunk they'd been using like a seat little more than a day before. It's in plain view of the land outside the hatch, but far enough away that the child shouldn’t be able to make out the dead man’s face. He kneels, so that he’s not looming over the kid as he speaks. "Can you stay here while I do that?"

Brown eyes look up at him, wary and knowing. He doesn’t follow when Mando walks back out onto that obsidian and gravel crusted plain but something tells him the child is watching.


	15. Chapter 15

It’s easy to get caught up in the rhythm of laying the rocks. The physical labor prevents him from thinking too hard, becoming overwhelmed. Who he’s burying. Why. Those are important, but he focuses on the logistics of the task in front of him: The ground is too solid to dig, the blurrg will more than likely become the meal of a scavenger by nightfall (they’re not staying long enough to find out), but at least the Mandalorian can give her rider the dignity of a burial - traditional or not. Every so often, he checks on the child, sighting the droop of green ears, the way he listlessly swings his tiny feet over the edge of a crate.

It’s been a rough couple of days. Hopefully they’re out of all that now.

There are only so many large stones, and even fewer of them are ones Mando is able to carry without reminding himself of how he’s injured. The bacta had healed the majority of his head injury, but it did nothing for the rest of his extremities. Though, at the thought of that, he feels a stab of guilt. The IG unit had done the best they could, given the circumstances.

A loud thud makes him jerk as he places another volcanic stone. He whirls around to see his charge blinking, face down on the ground, grimacing as he pushes himself up. 

He doesn’t think about that either, he just moves. The child is swept up in hold without a word. It questions him with a soft, croaking babble, flinching when his hand wraps around his belly to keep him secure.

“Is this where you were injured?” He asks. The child frowns, and his eyes snap to the Mandalorian’s when he moves his fingers carefully, checking for further injury. The little one's pain is apparent.

Task momentarily forgotten, the Mandalorian adjusts his grip so that the child is laying on his arm more than anything. He doesn’t cry, so Mando assumes it’s alright for now. Not that he wants to ignore the child’s pain, but they need to keep moving. There’s a good chance Gideon has been neutralized, but he’s not in good enough shape to go find out for certain. Better to get a head start and cover their tracks while they lick their wounds.

A few more trips back, and forth, gathering lava rock with a single hand, and Mando decides he’s made a decent enough memorial. It’s not enough, it’ll never be enough, but it’s all he can do.

The child squeezes his hand when he places the last of the stones, supporting his quiet thanks and mumbled apology. Kuiil was a simple man. He wanted to live a peaceful life, had worked a lifetime to be free, but then they'd crossed paths. The Mandalorian cannot help but feel responsible.

(He can't shake the feeling that Kuiil would argue that, that he'd say his final tasks were noble. That his only regret is that he was not able to see them to fruition.)

After a brief moment, the Mandalorian rises. He turns his back to the grave and walks back to the ship. The child's eyes are dark as he blinks up at him. He might not know galactic basic, might not be able to communicate properly, but this child knows grief.

And grief is a pain shared by many (if not all) foundlings.

-/

The child climbs into his lap not long after he engages the hyperdrive and the stars streak into lines that blur around the edges. Clenched between tiny fingers is his necklace - well, it’s not his anymore, Mando thinks. With that, he exhales.

The necklace belongs to the child now. Before he donned a helm, he wore it as a symbol to represent that he had been lost. But more than that, it was a talisman: a physical reminder that he had been found. 

By the Mandalorians.

Too many nights has the beskar hung heavy on him, a physical burden to match the intangible one in his mind. Both are cumbersome in different ways. He’d made the wrong choices before, and he could not promise something as foolishly hopeful as that he’d never make another bad call, but he’s going to try to do right by the child.

In his lap, the child curls in, facing his abdomen. Both hands are wrapped around the skull of the mythosaur, but he does not suck on it. His features are smooth like the sea after a storm, breaths soft and even in sleep. He won’t be surprised if the child sleeps for a standard day; He wouldn’t be the only one. At some point, he thinks, pulling off his gloves carefully and ignoring the damage that’s bled through them despite things, he’ll have to clean them both up. His armor is sooty, as is the child’s fingers, and he’s certain they both smell of smoke. The blood on his face, that’s run down his neck, is dry and flaky on skin and clothes, but he has no desire to move. 

The beskar doesn’t feel heavy any longer, despite a myriad of other aches and pains that ail him. The task in front of him is clear. He doesn’t know where to begin looking for a species of (potentially) threatening sorcerers, but right now neither he nor the child have an interest in anything but the inside of their eyelids. It’s completely understandable, considering. The rest will come later. They have a little time now, they’ve earned it.

He double checks the control panel, blinking slowly behind his helmet, the weight and warmth of the child in his lap seeming to accelerate his body’s willingness to sleep. Only when their course is secure does he let his eyes stay closed. The seat doesn’t recline much, but he slouches, arms coming around the child as if to cradle him where he lays, keep him grounded.

Just as he’s starting to drift, the child murmurs quietly, shuffling. It’s not conscious thought that drives the drifting Mandalorian to place his hand at the top of the small child’s back, to cradle the little one’s head with thick fingers in a sluggish movement.

It’s instinct to begin with, but a conscious decision to stay.

And with that touch, the child feels safe. 


	16. Chapter 16

Reaching with one hand, the Mandalorian opens the unsuspecting panel with a flick of his wrist and pulls out an even more innocent looking toolkit that’s home to his meager medical cache. In his arms, the child watches, half awake and suckling on his new talisman. They’d woke not long ago, but the child flinched and whined when he shifted him from where he lay to rest in the crook of his arm.

He should have cared for the child sooner. Immediately. It's a reminder that he's woefully out of his depth.

The medkit isn’t much. Some wipes, a few expired stims that work well enough, some gauze. A few assorted items that he'd never touch but might come in handy keeping a bounty in the land of the living. He keeps rummaging through it one handed. Somewhere in here, at some point, he swore there was some bacta. 

The child freezes when he picks up and inspects a syringe, looking both hyper aware and terrified. He forces himself not to look away, not to think about why that reaction exists, even though he can see the Imp’s droids hanging over the child in his mind’s eye, how he’d been locked beneath their medical tech, about to be exploited, somehow.

It couldn’t have been the only time.

“I won’t use this on you,” He tells the little one, moving the needle out of sight. They've moved over to his bunk now, and the Mandalorian brings an empty container to rest in front of it so that he's not bent over the child while he evaluates him. Carefully, he unsnaps the clasps of the child's sack-like tunic, intending to ruck it down far enough to assess the child's hurts, talking to him while he does it. “You probably only have a couple bru-”

The welts are ugly and dark, mottled and purple brown. These are not the coincidental marks of rough handling. It was intentional. They’d hit him. It renders him mute, the rest of the words lodging themselves in his throat. He can see the ridge where the hard plate that guards the back of a trooper’s hands and first knuckles met the baby’s abdomen. Nothing looks visibly broken and the child’s breaths are not uneven or raspy, so that’s something going for them. The Mandalorian lets go of him to comb through his supplies, hoping he’s got even a single patch of bacta, something that will lessen this.

He can suffer through his ailments, but he doesn’t want to do that to the kid. He doesn’t deserve to hurt, but his protector comes up empty. He’s changing the plan. They’re stopping soon and he’s restocking on rations and supplies. It’s not just him anymore. He can’t afford to be careless and self-sabotaging.

“Can you heal yourself?” He asks thickly, when he realizes there is no bacta to be seen. The most he has is a (recently expired) stim, but the child will hardly go for being poked with a pressure needle. Not go mention he’s too small for the Mandalorian to determine if it’s appropriate or not. Of course, it doesn't help that the child doesn’t seem to understand what he’s asking.

Trying to show him, Mando pulls off a glove, indicating a burn on the top of his forearm and places a hand over it, indicative of what he means. “Like what you did for Karga, after those beasts poisoned him,” He tells the boy. “ _ Healing _ . Do you know what that means?” The child focuses, and he pulls back when he feels an acute shift in his wound beneath the child’s fingers, like a tug, but it's not painful. He doesn’t mean to do so forcefully, but he startles the child regardless with the abruptness of his action.

Wide brown-black eyes stare up at him confused and hedging on upset.

“No, no! I mean you,” He apologizes. The child tilts his head, confused, as though he’s been given conflicting orders. “You don’t have to, that wasn’t what I - You, you’re not expected to do that.” Mando sighs. “You don’t even understand what I’m saying, do you?”

The child tilts his head, quizzical.

“That’s a no all the way around, huh?” The Mandalorian muses aloud. “Alright. Let’s get cleaned up and then we’ll figure out what to do from there. Deal?”

It must be the way his voice shifts, from that overt concern to something resigned and focused that eases the child, because he coos in a way indicating agreement (more or less). The Mandalorian resnaps the child’s dirty outfit together, already deciding he’ll bathe the child - clothes and all - before they reach the nearest spaceport. That decided, he starts in on his own armor. The child isn't the only one who needs cleaning up, and it'll all go smoother with less beskar. 

When he reaches for the clasp of his breastplate and winces, the child’s ears perk. “It’s nothing,” He tells the boy, “Believe me.”

Humming, the child shifts forward, hands reaching up, fingers clenching and unclenching.

He ignores the gesture a moment, pulling the beskar carefully from the soft parts of his armor. The cuirass is lowered to the floor carefully first, followed leg armor and boots, the left pauldron. The right is last.

The beskar of this pauldron is the brightest, the armorer’s recent work unblemished and perfect in its artistry. He can see the reflection of his helm, the bloody cloak around his neck in the spaces between the mudhorn insignia. The metal is mirror-like and gleaming.

The pauldron with his signet is deposited beside the child with a kind of reverence he doesn’t have to put effort towards. The child leans over it, making an inquisitive sound, but his eyes light up in acknowledgement. His follow-up coo is gentler. Clumsy fingers trail over the sigil of his clan and the Mandalorian swallows.

Not his, he thinks. Theirs. For as long as he has this little one, everything he has is shared. He turns the thought over in his mind and something tugs in his chest.

He can't deny this attachment. Not any longer.

“She does good work,” He says softly. “Our armorer.”

The child babbles something, patting the horn, then pointing to the Mandalorian’s chest.

“You remember the mudhorn,” He ventures to an attentive audience. This time he recognizes the response as a clear affirmative. “Good thing you stepped in for that. I don’t think the vibroblade would have done much head on.” Really, the Mandalorian knows it wouldn’t. He’d likely have stabbed the thing in the jaw and been trampled for his trouble.

The child’s reply is subdued, almost thoughtful, as if he knows that. It’s nothing concrete, however, just a jumble of random syllables. At this point, most of what Mando knows about what the kid knows is a mystery, so he actually might be aware of what he’d done. If nothing else, the kid seems to understand feelings so at least they’re on the same wavelength. Kind of.

When he pulls apart his cloak, it’s tacky and chipped with blood. There’s a rip and burn as it’s peeled away from his neck, indicative that not all of the wounds he sustained were patched up by the bacta.

The child reaches out again, making a more insistent sound.

“No,” The Mandalorian presses. “I’m okay.”

The child squints.

“No. You’ve been injured,” He reminds the kid, a hand gently touching the child’s side, earning a whine for it. “That-” He exhales. “With the fire,” He manages, dropping his cloak to the metal floor, “It must have took a lot out of you.” 

Perhaps not understanding, or maybe not caring about his own self-preservation, the baby holds out his hands anyway. Willing. Wanting to help his companion. The Mandalorian takes his hands, as he had, that very first time the child had tried helping him. But instead of pushing the child away, he holds onto those little fingers, squeezing gently.

“You come first,” says Din Djarin.

It's a step in the right direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're here, you've made it to the very end, and have my unending gratitude for sticking it out and reading this little story of mine.


End file.
